Hugo liked him well enough, sometimes. Sometimes they got along just fine. And then there were times like today, when Cannon would annoy him for no reason. He’s probably jealous, something whispered in his mind. That made sense. Cannon was used to being the smartest one around, the star pupil of the Wind Mage and all that. No doubt he felt a bit threatened around Hugo. After all, Hugo was younger than Cannon and he was a full mage already, while Cannon was still an apprentice.
Cannon’s mouth moved then, but Hugo couldn’t hear him over the screaming wind and rain and the occasional cracking of hail against his skull. “What?” Hugo shouted over the din.
“Can—you—hear—the—light—yet?” Cannon was laughing now. Laughing. That pig-headed, arrogant fool. How could someone laugh at a time like this? This is the worst moment of my life, Hugo thought bitterly. He stopped himself. No, there had been worse ones. But this was definitely a low point.
“Cheer up, Hugo!” Cannon shouted, stepping closer so that Hugo could hear him more easily. “Think of the stories.”
“Stories?”
“This will make a great story someday, won’t it? When you’re a crotchety old king with grandchildren to entertain?”
“Maybe,” Hugo said glumly. “But don’t you think this is a bit much to go through just for a story?”
Cannon shook his head. “No way. This is what it’s all about,” he said. “Stories, Hugo…Stories.”
***
During a brief break in the storm, Hugo took his shirt off and wrung it out, shivering in the temporary sunlight.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Cannon said, smirking.
“Hey,” Hugo said, hitting Cannon in the shoulder. He hit him firmly, but not so hard that it couldn’t be passed off as playful. “I’ll tell you what I would enjoy.” He stepped off the road and picked up two long, thin branches that had fallen from a tree in the storm. He handed one of them to Cannon. “Practice swordplay with me,” Hugo said, unsheathing his real sword and laying aside his pack.
“No, thank you,” Cannon said, handing the branch back.
Hugo didn’t take it. “What?” he teased. “Chicken?”
Cannon dropped the branch at Hugo’s feet. “I am not chicken,” he said, as if he found the expression distasteful. “I am not poultry of any kind. I simply have no desire to engage in such a pointless exercise.”
“It’s not pointless,” Hugo said. “I have to master the sword if I’m going to be a knight. And I’m going to be a knight. You have to be a knight to be a king. I mean, it’s not actually in the rules, but everyone knows it. A king who can’t use his own sword just looks like an idiot. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for making the future king look like an idiot, would you, Cannon?”
Cannon smiled mischievously. “Here you are, shirtless, in the middle of nowhere, with your sword and your bag lying in the mud, holding a pair of sticks,” he said. “The future king already looks like an idiot. I don’t think my playing stick swords with him will make any difference.”
Hugo cringed. Then he dropped the sticks and put his shirt back on. “Fine,” he said. “But someday, when I’m a ridiculously powerful mage and the High King of Aberdeen, and you’re a crotchety old Wind Mage, you’re not going to be able to say no to me anymore, and then I’m going to kick your butt in a stick fight.”
He had meant it to sound insulting, but Cannon started laughing, and Hugo found himself struggling not to smile.
“Excuse me,” Animus said, walking over to them. “Did someone just call me old and crotchety?”
Hugo and Cannon looked at each other, then they both burst into laughter.
Hugo’s good mood didn’t last long, however.
The rain had started again.
***
That night they camped beneath an old stone bridge. The bridge had been built over an old irrigation ditch, and water from the overflowing land coursed around them, but the little island in the center was dry, and dry spots were hard to come by at a time like this. In truth, it was more than Hugo had dared hope for. The cold wasn’t as bad when you weren’t being rained on.
With the three of them all huddled in together, there was no room to lie down. They could only sit there, back to back, and listen to the rain. Cannon was asleep, of course, though how a person could sleep sitting up was beyond Hugo. He doubted he was going to get five minutes of shut-eye tonight. On top of that, he was ravenously hungry, and there would be no fire, only dried meat from his pack for dinner. He reached in and pulled out a soaked piece of jerky.
Would you like some very wet cheese? Animus’s voice sounded in his head, making him jump. That meat smells quite nice, if you have some to spare.
Sure, he responded, passing over a piece of meat. Animus deposited what looked like a sturdy white booger into his hand. If it had once been cheese, it was not any longer.
I still haven’t gotten used to this mind talking thing that we do. I didn’t even know about it before I was a mage, Hugo said conversationally.
Yes. It can be very useful in times like this.
They ate in silence for a while, and then Animus stirred. Hugo, who had left his mind open to the other mage, noticed a sense of discomfort emanating from him. Sorry, he said automatically.
For what?
Uh, well, I felt you getting uncomfortable. I didn’t know that I could feel your feelings like that. I mean, Brinley feels mine from time to time, or so she tells me, but I didn’t know that the mages could do it with each other.
Ah, yes, Animus said. That can happen. Usually you will find that crotchety old mages like myself will keep their feelings quite guarded.
Hugo didn’t know how to take that. It didn’t seem like a compliment by any means. He decided to say nothing. After a while, Animus stirred again, the same way he had done before. This time Hugo felt nothing from him. He had been shut out.
I have something for you, Animus said slowly. I am not excited to give it to you, but I think you will need it.
Hugo raised his head curiously. What?
See for yourself. Animus passed something over his shoulder and Hugo reached up to take it. It appeared to be a small folding pocket mirror. It was metal on the outside, and Hugo could tell that it was very old. On one side, the lid had been polished, but when he flipped it over, the opposite side was rough. It seemed to have developed a heavy patina, probably over a period of many years. He started to open it.
Take care, Animus said. Do not forget yourself.
Hugo stopped, the mirror halfway open, and snapped it shut. Animus, whose mirror is this?
The old mage sighed. It is yours now, I suppose. It belonged to Lux…Every Mage of Light and Darkness has carried it, as far as I know.
Hugo flipped it over again in his hands. One side was light, the other dark.
Where did you get it?
I took it from Lux’s body on Calypsis. I thought that the next mage might need it at some point, though if I am being honest, I had hoped that I was wrong about that.
Why? Hugo asked. Why have you waited so long to give this to me?
Animus was silent for a while as the rain increased in volume again. The Magemother gave this to Lux when he was old enough…He was never the same after that.
Hugo felt a little chill. So this was it…This was how it began. This was the thing that would change him. He knew, of course, what would be inside—who would be inside. It would be the same person that he had seen in the mirror in the dungeons of Caraway Castle. His other half, as it were…his darkness.
Have you named him yet? Animus asked.
Named him? Hugo said.
Lux told me once that he had to name the darkness in order to control it.
Well, Hugo said coldly, that didn’t turn out so well for him. Maybe he was wrong.
Maybe, Animus said. Only you can decide, of course, but I think it is good to name the things that frighten us most. It makes them easier to deal with.
What would you name him? Hugo asked.
&n
bsp; That question, of course, is not appropriate for me to answer. Given that the governance of darkness is your affair, I cannot name the darkness any more than you can name the wind. It would be like naming another person’s child. What would you name it?
Hugo folded his arms. I don’t know. I suppose I could just call him what he is.
And what is he?
Darkness.
Animus shifted, bumping Cannon’s knee and causing him to splutter mid-snore. That is what Lux did, in a way. Tennebris is an old word for darkness.
Great. So Lux had done the same thing he had been about to do? That made him want to do something else.
You do not have to decide now, of course, Animus said.
Hugo relaxed slightly. He flipped the mirror over again in his hands. What would happen if he opened it? Should he do it now? Or should he wait until later? Should he really open the mirror at all? It sounded dangerous. He turned it over in his hand again. It felt dangerous too. Evidently Animus thought that it was necessary. Perhaps it was.
Of course, there was only one way to find out. He flipped the mirror open and stared at the face that was staring back at him.
Chapter Six
In which there is some very nasty Bread
“If—You—Ever—Do—That—Again,” Brinley said as Habis cut the ropes that held her to the sofa.
“You’ll what?” Habis asked defensively. “Make me a mage? Bah! If I hadn’t restrained you, you would have rushed out there and probably been killed. I saved your life.”
“I’m not completely helpless,” Brinley said. She let out a puff of air, blowing the bangs out of her eyes. “Anyway, won’t they come back?”
“Possibly,” Habis said.
“The ants will not give up for a while,” Tabitha assured them.
“We had better get a move on, then,” Habis said. “They did not discover my new house, so we should be safe here, as long as we can lay a convincing trail for them to follow if they come back.”
They followed her outside and met Dung, who was nursing a bruise on his head where he had landed on the rock, but otherwise appeared to be okay. Together, they set to work leaving a false trail of their departure. It was easy, really. They ran around a bit as if confused and deciding what to do, then they grouped up and walked through the field and past the tree line into the forest, opposite the way the ogre had come.
After Habis judged that they had gone far enough in to the woods, Tabitha, in swan form, ferried them back to the invisible house. This allowed them to get back without leaving any traces of their return.
“Now,” Habis said, picking up a handful of shredded rope from her floor and glaring at Brinley, “what did you come here to ask me? Or is there some other calamity that you would like to bring upon me first?”
“No,” Brinley said. “It’s about this.” She held up the naptrap.
“Ah,” Habis said, walking over to take it. “Dung, leave us.”
Dung, who had just followed them into the house, nodded his head and turned back for the door.
“Not that way!” Habis said. “Do you want to get eaten by an ogre?”
“No.”
“Then just go sit in the cellar or something instead.”
He nodded again and left the room through a small hallway at the back.
Habis inspected the vial. “It looks good. Seal intact, no signs of color change. You know, when they turn black, whatever you’ve placed in it has died, but this looks fine. I’m sure she is quite all right in here. Still in stasis.” Habis handed the vial back. “You’ll be happy to know that I did a little digging as you requested, to see if there is any easy way to heal her.”
“And?” Brinley asked, trying not to get her hopes up.
“There is definitely no easy way.”
Brinley sighed. “The hard way, then.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s the hard way?” Tabitha asked.
Habis retrieved a large brass-bound book from her shelf and laid it on the table. She opened it to a page near the center and showed them an illuminated picture of four of the most horrible-looking trees that Brinley had ever seen. They were short and stocky and completely bereft of leaves. Their color was black, and a face was drawn onto each of them with bark twisting out of the center of the trees to form the features. The one on the left had a very sad face, its eyes downcast, while the tree on the right looked like something from a horror movie. Its eyes were wide open and straining, its mouth gaping, teeth bared, tongue sticking out in a grotesque way, as if it was being tortured. The third tree looked incredibly angry, while the fourth, the shortest of the four, wore a blank expression.
Brinley shivered.
“These,” Habis said solemnly, “are the twistwood trees.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Tabitha said. “When Belsie was teaching me about trees I asked him what the worst tree was. He said the twistwood, and he said if I ever saw it to run, because I was in a very bad place.”
“Indeed,” Habis said. “A very bad place. The twistwood trees are located in the very heart of the Wizard’s Ire, created and planted there by my father.
“The trees are evil. The seeds were originally from a willow, the Weeping Willow of the Fallow Fields, upon which thousands were executed by hanging in the old days. The bark of the trees, if eaten, will kill a person slowly and painfully, and there is no cure. The wood itself is deadly, as well. A sliver will kill in under a day, while a wound made from a weapon fashioned out of the wood will have a more terrible effect, torturing the victim with a subtle increase of pain until they can stand it no longer.”
“And then they die?” Tabitha asked.
“No,” Habis said grimly. “Nothing as easy as that. It is as if their soul becomes infected. They lose the will to live. They are unable to feel happiness. Never again is there laughter, enthusiasm, satisfaction in their heart. Documented victims describe feeling no will to live and no desire to die. Most end up taking their own lives in the end. Though if they can hold out, the day will come when their body becomes so depressed that it is unable to form nutrients from food, their desire and enjoyment of food having long since left them. They eventually wither and die of starvation.”
Tabitha looked horrified; Brinley was feeling a bit queasy herself. She hoped that they were getting to the end of it.
“Shael originally planted the trees to make weapons of war, which he gave to his most trusted servants. During the war many a knight or noble was slain by a twistwood blade, but the only person to suffer the trees’ evil in the last one hundred years is your mother.”
Tabitha’s eyes grew wide. “So that is what was wrong with her…” she said. “I tried to treat her when she came to me as a magpie in my tower,” she said, blushing. “I thought it was just a scratch. I treated her for a topical infection.”
Habis smiled kindly. “In a way that is what it was. I’m sure she was grateful for your help. In the form of a bird, she was able to slow the effects of the wood. In the naptrap, time is suspended for her, or very nearly so, but if she were to come back out now it would take her quickly. She was cut by the bark of the tree, not the wood itself, so the effects should be reduced somewhat. Wounds of this nature are less common, however. There is no documentation of similar cases that I can find.”
“And there’s no cure?” Brinley asked.
“If the bark is eaten, there is no cure,” Habis corrected. “For one who is merely cut by the bark, there may be a cure. There is some speculation on the subject, some by my uncle, who wrote this book, and some by me, as I have been pondering it since our last meeting.”
“And?” Tabitha and Brinley said together.
“If I am right,” she said cautiously, “a tincture brewed from the bark of a twistwood tree may heal her. It would be best if the bark came from the same tree as the weapon that injured her, but if necessary, any tree will do.”
Tabitha brightened. “That’s easy enough,” she said. “There
’s bound to be some old bark weapons lying around somewhere. We’ll just get one!”
“I’m afraid not,” Habis said. “Great care was taken to destroy all such weapons after the war.”
“Oh,” Tabitha said. “Well, then we’ll just have to go into the Wizard’s Ire and get some ourselves.”
Brinley bit back a smile, but she couldn’t help feeling the same way. She had expected it to be much worse than that. It would be a long and difficult journey to reach the twistwood trees, but at least it sounded possible.
“Not so fast,” Habis said, holding up a hand. Tabitha was on her feet and halfway to the door.
“I knew it,” Brinley said dully.
“The tincture will be the easy part,” Habis continued. “But the only way it will work is if we have all of the mages in attendance when your mother drinks it.”
“I don’t understand,” Brinley said.
Habis gave her a stern look. “That is because I’m not finished explaining yet.”
Brinley flopped back into her chair with a huff and placed her head in her hands. “Listening.”
“Will it take much longer?” Tabitha said, “I’m getting quite hungry. It must be nearly lunchtime.”
“True, true,” Habis said. Then she shouted, “Dung, potatoes!” She turned back and motioned for them to follow her into the kitchen. “Help me cook. It is unwise to talk so much on an empty stomach.”
The gangly servant appeared a moment later with a small bucket full of potatoes, and Brinley and Tabitha began to help Habis peel them. When they were finished, Habis tipped the potatoes into a pot of boiling water together with chopped carrots, onions, parsley, beets, and some sort of meat that Brinley did not recognize.
“The twistwood trees,” Habis went on, “originally created by Shael, are born of a magic that is designed to elude all attempts at healing, even by the mages themselves. Shael grew the trees with polluted specimens from each of the seven elements. The wood, the seeds themselves, I already told you of. He planted them in soil imbued with stone dust ground from a piece of the Hezarack Stone.”
Magemother: The Complete Series (A Fantasy Adventure Book Series for Kids of All Ages) Page 36
